


The Hunted: Vignettes

by jkateel



Series: The Hunted [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe, Blood Drinking, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/M, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Medical Procedures, Mental Health Issues, Romance, Serious Injuries, Sex, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-17
Updated: 2016-02-17
Packaged: 2018-04-04 20:54:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 14,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4152588
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkateel/pseuds/jkateel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of stories from <em>The Hunted</em> universe, about those who lived and died on (or lost someone to) Dick Roman's island.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Angel

**Author's Note:**

> This is a tie-in to [The Hunted](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1447786/chapters/3047170) universe. Without reading the main story, I think you'll be _really_ lost or possibly spoiled. You've been warned! 
> 
> A little background: Inspired by the short story "The Most Dangerous Game" by Richard Connell, this AU is set in a world where humans co-exist with angels, vampires, demons, werewolves, etc.; **however, there are no supernatural/magical elements.** Each "monster" from Supernatural canon are all separate distinct flesh-and-blood humanoid species with no magic to speak of. Artistic license was taken with how each species looks and behaves, with various nods to Supernatural canon.
> 
> Please reference the tags for content warnings.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Angels: the very creatures that gave any daemon over the age of thirty nightmares to this day. 
> 
> Set almost two years before _The Hunted_.

* * *

**The Island**

* * *

The log was a steaming mess of grubs, beetles, worms and other insects, feasting away on the rotting meat of the long-dead tree trunk. Zane kept her gaze level with the log, while her nictitating membranes slid over her eyes and plunged her vision into a world of grays. She hoped her sunglasses covered the rest; that no one could tell she wasn’t looking at anything but the damn log in front of her.

She slowly exhaled to calm herself, eyes skittering across the tree branches above her. She searched and searched, but saw nothing… Yet, it would be incredibly difficult to see him, wouldn’t it? She’d be lucky to spot him while they were here, but he definitely _was_ close by — she could smell him in the air, that lingering scent of pine, pollen and cloves that only he had.

“Got it!”

Zane glanced over, seeing Luce grinning triumphantly from where he stood by a thick, tall pine tree. The younger daemon, with his bleach-blond hair and ridiculous scarf he always insisted on wearing, was admiring his handiwork, a long rope slung over on top of a tree branch high up on the pine. It was a good throw — Zane remembered Luce telling some of the others about his skill at tossing footballs around on the field. He had almost made quarterback on his high school football team because of it; had almost had a chance at a scholarship for college where he could have almost gone pro.

 _Almost_. Which was the story of all their lives after the Azazel Uprisings, Zane thought, adjusting her grip on the rifle. They all had almost had done a lot of things... but now they were zookeepers for the world’s most deadliest and pissed-off animals. A far-cry from the dreams that Luce, or any daemon, had probably had once.

It was still more than what she _would_ have been doing however, Zane reminded herself. There wasn’t much work out there for a daemon, despite post-war treaties and promises and humans’ relaxed attitudes about her kind. At least, none that paid quite as much as her current job… Which was probably why she was still here, even after all she had seen and would never be able to unsee.

“Well, get climbing, kid,” coaxed Wash. Zane’s second-in-command, stood across from her; with Zane seeing all grays, Wash’s dark hair and dark skin and fatigues made her almost disappear against the forest backdrop. “I want to get back. The game is on soon.”

As Luce laughed, saying he wanted to watch it too, Wash slowly met her gaze. She knew then, Zane thought, watching as Wash dipped her head to push at her sunglasses. It was a stealthy gesture to help her too peer up at the tree line, but it looked like she didn’t see anything either. She bared her teeth briefly in frustration before she clearly caught herself, her mouth quickly sealing shut. The angel could read such cues, and it was best not to give away that they knew he was there. Less likely he’d feel threatened then… And that meant he was less likely to wipe the floor with them.

If he attacked at all, that was, Zane thought. It had been a while since he had done so, which was right around the time he had reappeared with that nasty looking scarring on his chest. Zane had thought he was dead when he had disappeared for almost two months, and he had been _a lot_ different since then. Still not afraid of them by any stretch of the imagination, but also not inclined to slaughter them, or leave them just injured enough that they couldn’t flee when the vampires and werewolves found their bloody bodies.

That was _good_ — Zane had lost a lot of her men during that time, thirty in total. On top of the deaths, it had caused a whole host of personnel issues too: there were those who wanted to quit, those who didn’t want to go out again, and those she had to recruit and train to be prepared for this… _place_. And she was still surprised that the boss hadn’t eviscerated her for the whole incident too, or _worse_. (The thought of _worse_ made her shudder.)

One of her current trainees was currently halfway up the tree, Luce moving from branch to branch with a great deal of maneuverability for the gear he had strapped to his chest. Once he was high enough, he straddled a thick tree branch and opened his vest, which popped open to reveal a computer case. “Just need some time to connect to the Wifi,” he muttered into his headpiece. “Give me a sec’.”

Wash signaled at Zane with her hand, a "no eyes on target." Zane glanced up at Luce again, who was pulling out the new cameras that they were attaching to the trees to help with surveillance. They had to be high up, otherwise the vampires fucked with them, and that was a report Zane didn't want to file anytime soon. Thankfully, the angel was less inclined to mess with their electronics… just as he was less inclined to ever get spotted by them apparently. _Maybe he moved on_ , Zane thought idly, scenting the air again.

Luce was humming to himself when he suddenly let out a squeak. At that, both Wash and Zane had their rifles trained on where he was, and Zane _finally_ saw the angel.

She always forgot how _big_ he was. Not in size or height (she was taller and more bulky than he would ever be), but his sheer presence _alone_. It was the wings, she thought. Even half chopped off, spread out like they were made her instinctively want to duck for cover. If it wasn't that, it was the eyes, which were nothing like the iridescent cat eyes of the vampires, or the blank silvers and blues of the werewolves. Even in the muted grays of her world, they still glowed brightly, making it difficult to look at him in the face. He looked like how angels had always been described in the stories her mother had told her when she was a pup: like fearsome birds of darkness, that would swoop down from above and bring death and destruction in their wake.

And he definitely could do that here and now. He was right above Luce, striking distance from where he was crouched on the tree branch; even in her colorless vision, Zane could catch the gleam of his silver blade, the light causing it to shine like a star in the night sky.

“Luce,” Wash said into the radio, loud enough for the angel to hear. Zane could hear the radio crackle from even down on the ground. “No sudden movements. And for Lucifer’s sake, do _not_ draw your weapon.”

Luce cursed again. He was frozen against the tree trunk, and Zane could smell his panic and adrenaline even with the distance. “I can _do_ it,” he growled into his headset, Zane seeing his hand inching toward the pistol strapped to his thigh.

 _“_ Don’t _do_ it, you idiot,” she snapped. Luce was the kind of daemon who had grown up on war stories, and was filled with a burning need for revenge against all angel-kind that only his generation had. The perfect candidate for this job really — but the island had a habit of making them lose that attitude fast. Especially when faced with the very creatures that gave any daemon over the age of thirty nightmares to this day.

“Do _not_ make any sudden movements,” Wash repeated, and then called up to the angel, “We’ll be lowering our weapons now.”

“What?!” Luce cried, and then did exactly what he wasn’t supposed to, jerking forward to look down at them. “What are you _doing_?!”

Thankfully the angel didn’t react to that, cocking his head as his eyes flicked down at them. And while Luce cursed at them, Wash and Zane did exactly as they said and slowly lowered their rifles down. From the tree top, Zane could see the angel relax, his wings slowly tucking up against his back, and the gleam of his sword disappearing into his coat. Zane watched with baited breath as he shifted and then started to move away; the branch he was on barely dipped under his weight. He hopped over into the next tree, disappearing into the foliage with barely a sound.

 _That was close_ , Zane thought as she finally allowed herself to breathe. It was possible they had stumbled across the angel as he was foraging for food, and he had decided to hide instead of running… or worse, attacking them. And while Luce was still cursing down at them, the smell of his fear now rancid in the air, any encounter that ended with none of her people dead was a success for Zane. She sighed, and then finally snapped at Luce, “Shut up and get back to work.”

“The game is still waiting, kid,” Wash said, not as harshly. It probably wasn’t going to appease Luce any... and any trust built between Zane and her subordinate was probably gone now. But least he wasn’t dead, Zane thought. And sometimes that was all she had... At least they had made another day out here alive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this universe, "daemons" (pronounced "day-muns") is the correct term for the demon species. Most of the time, however, people just call daemons the more derogatory term "demons."


	2. Ten-Dollar Bets

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well, however your brother would have wanted ya’ to live, this ain’t it, boy,” Bobby grunted back. Dean swallowed again. That was true, wasn’t it? “Dean, you gotta’ find your reasons to get back in the game. I don’t care if it's love or spite or a ten-dollar bet, but you can’t live like _this.”_
> 
> Set three months before _The Hunted._

 

* * *

**Sioux Falls, South Dakota**

* * *

With Jess and the twins gone, the house might as well have been a graveyard, and there was no way Dean could stay in it. There was only one place he could go, so he packed up what he could and started the 1,400 mile trip to Sioux Falls. Twenty-five hours later, after only stopping for gas, food and a four-hour nap, he was knocking on Bobby’s door.

Dean didn’t even know what time it was (night sometime, judging by how dark the sky was), but Bobby answered the door. The old man, forever in a cap and an old pair of jeans, had taken one look at him, seen whatever he had seen on Dean’s face, and then nodded.

“Beers in the fridge,” he grunted, stepping away from the doorway so Dean could enter the house. “C’mon.”

Dean lost count of how many days he spent there; how many reruns and old movies he watched; how many cars Bobby sent him off to fix. He lost track of the hours he spent wandering the woods outside the house, past trees still riddled with bullets and ground cratered from mortar shells. He forgot how many times he followed old hunting trails, finding the faded pentagram signs Sam carved into trees so Dean could always knew where to find him. He stopped caring how many bottles he went through a night to help him get whatever sleep he could, wishing night after night he wouldn’t dream.

At some point, Bobby either got annoyed at Dean for drinking all the hard stuff, or he grew tired of Dr. Sexy reruns. Dean sensed the change when he came down one morning, finding that the old man had made breakfast and was waiting for him. He was instantly on defense as Bobby poured him coffee, and set a plate of eggs and bacon in front of him.

“The sheriff down at the precinct is looking for someone to go runnin’ with,” Bobby began, would-be casual.

Dean slurped his coffee, just as casual, waiting for him to continue.

“I’m sure the reserves are going to call you back any day now,” Bobby went on, and then looked over Dean in his wrinkled shirt and sweats. “You probably should get back in shape for that. You’re starting to get a little pudgy around the edges there, son.”

That should have been a joke: Dean had always kept in shape, going for morning runs with Sam’s dumb dog while everyone was still asleep, or hitting the gym when the girls were off at preschool. Or he had used to — now he couldn’t even remember the last time he had gone for a run or looked at a weight set. But the thought of training with someone who _wasn’t_ Sam...

Not that his brother had gone running with him recently, Dean had to remind himself.

Or ever would again.

Dean felt himself tense, and had to fight back tears that threatened to prick his eyes. He glared down at his coffee, suddenly feeling the urge to find another bottle of whiskey and pour its contents right in.

Bobby was still waiting for an answer though, and Dean swallowed around the lump in his throat. “I’ll think about it,” he muttered, and took another slurp of his coffee.

The bad thing about Bobby was he always had been able to figure out when Dean was lying. But instead of rolling his eyes, or giving him a disbelieving look, he just sighed.

“Son,” he murmured, gentle in a way that Dean had never heard him be, “Your brother wouldn’t want you livin’ like this.”

 _Promise me, Dean,_ Sam whispered in the back of his mind. Dean felt his body tense up again, and he couldn’t help sarcastically quipping back, “Well, how Sam would have wanted me to live, I can’t do, Bobby.”

Bobby frowned at him, but Dean looked away. There were few people he trusted outside of Sam and Jess, and Bobby was one of him, but he could _not_ let him see the truth.

“Well, however your brother would have wanted ya’ to live, this ain’t it, boy,” Bobby grunted back. Dean swallowed again. That was true, wasn’t it? “Dean, you gotta’ find your reasons to get back in the game. I don’t care if it's love or spite or a ten-dollar bet, but you can’t live like _this_.”

At that, anger bubbled over and then it was exploding before he knew it. “What does it even matter, Bobby?!” he yelled. Screamed maybe. Point was, it echoed. “Who _cares_ about living? Sam’s gone! Hell, at this late in the game, Sam’s probably dead! Sam’s dead, and I’ll never know what happened to him! Sam’s _dead_ and _—”_

He cut himself off, and Bobby frowned at him. “And?” he repeated, while Dean froze, feeling his throat fill up again.

 _And I knew Sam was in trouble, and I did_ nothing _to stop it._

Instead of answering, he walked off. And Bobby, miraculously, let him go.

What Bobby had said to him stayed with Dean all day however. And, he found himself asking, what could he _possibly_ live for? It was _his_ fault Sam was gone, maybe _dead_. It was his fault Jess thought her husband had abandoned her. It was his fault the twins would _never_ know their father. How could he _ever_ make that right? How could he live when Sam didn’t?

It was a question that haunted him into the night. That meant he would have nightmares, so Dean found another bottle, and flipped on the television to drown out Sam’s whispers of _Promise me_.

But it was like the world suddenly stopped when he heard the interviewer on the television say, _“… Company dominates the defense and aviation sectors: Richard Roman.”_

Dean looked at the screen, seeing a face he knew so goddamn well. One he had seen in the files Sam had had once; his company name on the case wall his brother had used to keep in his office. And Roman turned right toward the camera, grinning as if he could see Dean through the television.

 _“Please,”_ he said. _“Dick.”_

Bobby walked in right then, and it must have been all over his face. “Dean?” he asked, concerned. Dean looked at him, heart pounding.

“I know who did it,” he whispered, and it was like lights shining in the darkness, blinding him. “I know who took Sam.”


	3. Sympathy for the Devil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How it all began.
> 
> Set almost two and a half years before _The Hunted_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When you get to a certain demon's name... He's a good guy in this 'verse.

It was a testament to Sam’s colorful history that he didn’t even blink an eye when Brady gave him an address to a small bar tucked away in the back alley of one of Hell’s Kitchen’s most dangerous streets. But even he was surprised as he took his first steps inside, and realized it was a _daemon-_ owned establishment when, from the main counter, a series of black eyes turned to look at him. Old instincts, carved into him by the war, still made him freeze up whenever he was around groups of daemons, his traitorous heart thudding in his chest so loudly they all probably heard it. (And the hellhound that was laying under one of the tables, its red eyes glued on him too, _definitely_ could hear it.)

The signage outside hadn’t given him any indication of what he was walking into, but granted, Brady had given him _some_ warning. “Use your Wesson name if they ask, alright?” he had told Sam over their lunch at the Pho place between both their offices. “There’s going to be people there who don’t exactly... _like_ the Winchester name.”

 _But do they like humans?_ Sam wondered as he glanced from the daemons down to dog. But he forced himself to relax and take a deep breath, hoping if the daemons had smelled his fear, they wouldn’t be insulted. He put on a charming smile too, directing it toward the waitress behind the counter.

“Brady sent me,” he explained, hoping that was enough.

It seemed to be: The daemons at the bar shifted and exchanged glances; the waitress quirked an eyebrow at him.

“You’re his human friend, huh?” she muttered, and then nodded with her head toward the corner of the restaurant. When Sam glanced over, he made out the shape of daemon sitting in a booth. “Who you want is over there. You need a light?”

Sam’s eyes had adjusted to the darkness of the place, so he shook his head in reply and thanked her. He headed over to Brady’s contact, taking in what he could see of the bar as he went. Daemons preferred the dark, but there was _some_ light: mostly from a window by the door, and a few candles around a small shrine set up in the back corner of the restaurant. It featured the most artistic sculpture of Lucifer Sam had ever seen (it even had _wings_ — had he ever seen one with wings?), its chipped paint and cracks in its marble hinting at its age. The whole place was old, lights from the candles painted the brick walls of the restaurant in golds and oranges, revealing scribbles of Latin written on the walls. They were familiar phrases that asked for protection and guidance, if Sam was reading them right.

Something like that made him wonder _how_ old this place was, and if it had always been a bar. Before the war, daemons often had spots like this in any town or city, where they could meet, get a meal, worship and just get refuge away from a human-dominated world. A lot of those places had been ransacked and destroyed during the war... or perhaps, to survive, had became something else altogether. Though, Sam had known enough men in his life to know how similar a bar and church could be...

If he had the time (and if the daemons would have let him), he would have loved to ask about the history of this place. But Brady’s contact was waiting, and Sam turned his attention to him as he got closer to the table. He was an old daemon, grizzled and hair gone completely gray. He had a scar over his right eye, the membrane that covered it milky white; his good eye, normal at the moment, studied Sam as he approached the table, not blinking once. Just looking at him, Sam could tell he was a veteran, and that made him wonder what side he had fought on. If Brady had cautioned against using his real name, probably the opposite side of the one he had been on.

But that had been more than twenty years ago, and bygones (even those as big as the Azazel Uprisings) could be bygones in Sam’s humble opinion. But just to be safe, he decide to stick to his fake name.

“Mr. Paimon?” he prompted. Paimon was wearing an old flannel and leather jacket, and Sam couldn’t help but be reminded of his father… A comparison his dad (and Dean) would have _killed_ him for. “Sam Wesson.”

Paimon glanced at his hand and then back up at him. “You the lawyer?” he asked, voice rough, possibly from the whiskey he was drinking.

Sam nodded in reply. That wasn’t his _official_ position, but the daemon needed a consultation from a lawyer, not an assistant district attorney. “That’s me,” he said, and then gestured at the table. “May I sit?”

After a brief frown — not an uncommon reaction; Sam found daemons were often confused when he was polite to them — Paimon nodded. Sam slid into the booth, settling his briefcase at his side and retrieving his recorder and a notepad with pen. The daemon continued to study as him as he set up his recorder and explained why he was recording him, but Sam didn’t mind — as Brady explained, Paimon had been reluctant to ask for help even from his own kind, but the circumstances had clearly pushed him this far. So up the grapevine it had went, until it finally reached Brady’s ears.

“He doesn’t know if he has a case on his hands or what,” Brady had explained. “He just needs some help, Sam.”

And so here Sam was, though he did expect Paimon to start drilling him about his qualifications or _why_ he was choosing to help a daemon. At the very least, he planned to give Paimon a quick rundown on how far his legal counsel could go, and what steps he would have to take if he did, in fact, have a case.

But neither happened: instead, Paimon took a gulp of whiskey, and then reached over to his side to grab something. He slid it across the table, and Sam frowned as he dug his phone out from his jacket pocket, turning on its flashlight so he could see. He found himself looking over an old military photograph of a daemon in his twenties, his military uniform clearly from Azazel’s side of the war. The patch for the Lilith faction was emblazoned on his sleeve, and around his neck was a pendant of Lucifer’s sigil, glinting from the camera’s flash. Despite his youth, there was a steadiness in his steel-gray eyes that made Sam think he had been a very dedicated soldier.

“My son, Jacob,” Paimon said without prompting, finger tapping on the photo. His good eye had flicked black because of Sam’s flashlight, and it made it difficult to read his emotions. “He got a job, up in Alaska. Paid well. Paid too damn well.”

“Doing what?” Sam prompted curiously. Sometimes jobs that “paid too damn well” weren’t exactly legal, and notorious for hiring daemons too. Was his son in trouble? he wondered.

“Jake said construction,” Paimon muttered with a slight sneer. “He had training as an electrician, but what he was making… Didn’t make sense, you know? But he said they need bodies up there — not everyone likes the cold, so people gotta’ make it worth it. And Jake thought it was. So off he went.”

Paimon looked down at the photo, and ran his tongue along his sharp canines, a sign of nervousness. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher than before. “I heard from him off and on since he left. He could never tell me much about what he was doing, but he told me it wasn’t what he had been expectin’. And then…”

He hesitated, and Sam knew then what had happened. He cringed, heart going out to the daemon. “I’m sorry for your loss—” he began, only to be cut off by a snarl from Paimon.

“I don’t want your pity, human,” he snapped, and Sam clicked his mouth shut. Paimon went quiet again, pursing his lips, and then looked down at the glass in his hand. Sam had been around enough men to know that sometimes bravery could be found in the bottom of a glass, so he waited patiently.

“They told me it was an accident,” the daemon croaked out eventually. He still didn’t look up from his glass. “Bad one. They couldn’t even bring a body home to me, that’s how bad it was.”

Sam couldn’t help but lift his eyebrows. _Damn_. “What kind of accident?”

Paimon looked up at that, his sneer of disgust back. “They wouldn’t tell me,” he growled, grip tightening on his drink. His long, sharp nails made the glass squeak. “Official report they sent with Jacob’s life insurance check was ‘ _work-related accident.’_ But it’s bull, I know it.”

“What makes you think that?” Sam asked, and Paimon’s eyes narrowed. Thinking the daemon might doubt Sam believing his story, he quickly clarified, “I mean, Mr. Paimon, what made you think there was something not right?”

Paimon seemed to accept that, and he ended up looking down at his glass again. “Day before they told me he died, Jake called me,” he began slowly, brow creasing again. “He was drunk. Hadn’t heard him that drunk since his mother died. And he had told me he had sinned… and the angel was gonna’ kill him for it.”

He looked up at him as he said that, and Sam felt the hair stand up on the back of his neck. _The angel was going to kill him for it?_ he repeated to himself. What the hell did that mean?

“Lucifer?” he asked, confused. Paimon’s son had been clearly religious — not just by his pendant, worn around his neck like humans wore crosses; Jacob had fought on Lilith’s faction and she, far more than Azazel, had used religious fervor to spur her armies on (and they were the first to fall apart when the angels had joined the war). But to say his god would kill him for his sins… What had he been _involved_ in?

“I guess. I don’t know. He never got to explain. Someone made him get off the phone,” Paimon replied, looking down at the photo of his son now. “And then next I hear, he’s dead... One day after he tells me he’s goin’ to die.”

 _Maybe he had been about to say something he shouldn’t have_ , Sam thought, and Paimon seemed to be thinking the same thing.

“At first, I didn’t connect the two,” the daemon explained, “But I… I wanted to know _how_ he died. Why they could only send me ashes, but none of his personal effects. Except the company tells me they can’t give details. Said Jacob signed an NDA, whatever that is, and that it was still binding even if he died.”

 _A possibly illegal operation with a non-disclosure agreement_ , Sam thought to himself, quickly scribbling down ‘NDA’ and a question mark. _Interesting… Maybe they’re using a shell company as a front?_

Paimon went on after taking a sip of his drink. “So I decide to call the sheriff of the town he was working in. If there a death, they gotta’ call the authorities, right? They gotta’ have a medical examiner's report, right? So I call, but the sheriff has no idea what I’m talking about. Wasn’t told about any deaths. Says he’ll get back to me — and then calls me back, and you know what he says?”

It was a rhetorical question, but Sam found himself shaking his head. Paimon bared his teeth, voice growing angry. “Says he can’t tell me much. Says there was an accident with a _wood chipper_ , but the medical examiner’s report got misplaced. He couldn’t send me anything official.”

 _Shoddy police work? The sheriff in on it?_ Sam wrote down, and then made another note to check if there was an actual paper trail.

“How my son ended up in a wood chipper when he was an _electrician_ —” Paimon snarled before frustration seemed to get the better of him. He took a deep breath and then a deeper drink, draining the entire glass; after he set it down, he gestured at Sam, and sighed.

“You’re thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, I can tell,” he said, and Sam nodded slowly. Paimon’s brow wrinkled again, his eyes falling to his glass again. It seemed to provide him the courage he needed, and he looked up at Sam again.

“When we lost the war, we was given promises. That we'd be treated fairly. Equally. My son and I may have fought on the wrong side of the war, but we... My son was a good boy. But sometimes we have to do bad things to get by because fair and equal still ain’t come, but I know my son. Whatever he got caught up in, he wouldn't have done it if he had known. And if this company is doing somethin' illegal, tricking our children to do it—”

Sam nodded in agreement, and then grew concerned when Paimon sighed again, and looked away. All frustration and anger seemed to bleed away from him, shoulder slumping as he reached up to massage his bad eye. “B-But I don’t even care about that,” he practically whispered, voice thick with grief. “I only care about… You didn’t hear my son that night, human. I-If you had heard _his_ voice… W-Whatever they did to him, whatever they made him do… My son didn’t deserve it, and he went to his death, thinking he did.”

He would have had to been dead not to feel for Paimon in that moment. Sam looked down at the picture of his son again, the younger Paimon’s determined gaze, his heart in the form of Lilith’s symbol and Lucifer's sigil on his sleeve. When he had taken that photo, he had probably dreamed about freedom for his people, of a world that would be fair and equal to them too...

“I just want to know what happened to him,” Paimon murmured, “And I don’t know how else to do it. I need help, Wesson, I need help…”

It took only a moment for Sam to make his decision. There would be a lot of work involved, and he was going to have to call in some favors to help pull records or go harass a certain sheriff in Alaska. But if this case was as big as he was thinking it could be, he was going to need put together one hell of a paper trail to show to his boss to get him a team… But none of that worried Sam too much. It was the right thing to do... And that alone was worth any caseload.

“I’ll help,” he said, and met Paimon’s surprised gaze. “Let’s find out what happened to your son. And if there’s anything illegal going on, let’s bring down the bastards that got him killed too.”


	4. The Woman Who Would be Queen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What was she now? Andrea wondered. That she reveled in the hunt, the strength and bonds of the nest, the old ways?
> 
> Set almost two and a half years before _The Hunted._

“He’s here again,” Renee whispered when she sat down next to Andrea, but despite the secrecy, she had a small smile on her lips. For a moment, Andrea just had to stop and marvel at her cousin's smile, once so frequent but now as rare as an easy meal. Andrea wished she had a camera to capture the moment, just to say it had happened, or to show her great aunt (the Mother rest her soul) that as much as the island had taken away, at least one of her granddaughters had a few moments of happiness. And it was almost enough for Andrea to reconsider warning Benny _again_ for the risk he was taking — her cousin’s brief amusement worth the cost.

But it was a risk, and it was also starting to become a problem. It was one thing for Benny to approach the nest late in the morning; entirely another to come not even a half-hour after the patriarch and his sons have fallen asleep after a night of hunting. There was always a chance one of them could only be half-asleep, and the smell of the exile would alert him, and he’d have the entire group of sons up in arms to try to kill him. There would be no stopping them if that happened — and though Benny had spent years avoiding the patriarch, he was getting desperate to join any nest, willing to brave the sons' wrath to do so.

Two years without a nest to call his or her own would do that to any vampir, however. They weren't meant to be without a nest, and some of them risked everything to fight for one.

And perhaps that was why Andrea was so drawn to Benny; why she too was willing to get up when any of the sons could see her if they weren’t asleep. She bid Renee a quick goodbye, and nodded at Alexus, who was curled up in the corner of the cave, nursing the baby. Her golden eyes followed Andrea to the cave entrance, where the light from the sunrise was starting to stream through, bird song filling the air. At the mouth of the cave, Andrea hesitated, letting her eyes adjust to the light, and to take in the scents coming in with the wind.

It smelled clean, fresh; rain was coming, but it wouldn’t hit until the afternoon. One of the werewolves had passed close to the nest that night, scavenging some of the bloodless remains they kept away from the main area. (Andrea had a feeling the demons were well aware of where the patriarch had them all holed up, but they still took precautions like not keeping food too close.) There were other scents in the air too: the family of foxes that had visited them last night too, the sea gulls that were nesting on the nearby cliff sides, the seals that were heading out for a morning fishing run. She even caught a faint whiff of the angel — possibly at the cliff sides as well, where Andrea often spotted him high up in the rocks, watching the birds swoop and dive in the ocean breezes.

As much as Andrea hated everything that had to do with the island, there were moments like this where she read the wind and marveled how much information in it. She hadn't done this while she lived in the real world — probably for the best, she had lived in cities and cities  _smelled_ — but she had also never thought to do it either. Perhaps because she never had to — her great aunt had been the matriarch of one of the most powerful political vampir families in Greece, and that afforded certain luxuries. Like security details, gated communities, the love and protection of the people and just a overall sense they were _safe_.

Andrea had long since learned _safe_ meant absolutely nothing, not after the demons had abducted them, not in this place. And that was why she scented the air, searching for any sign of danger, of anything that might be amiss. She wouldn’t put it past the demons, who were always watching them one way or another, to use Benny as bait one day to draw out the nest. Based on what Benny had told her about the monster, it was exactly what he’d do to get at them. And when that day came, Benny had warned, she was to grab who she could and  _run_ like she had never run before. 

Right then however, it seemed safe, and that prompted her to let out a low call, a thrum through her vocal chords that could communicate more than a single word ever could. It was a language she had been forced to learn when she had been first captured, packed in tight with a whole other vampir nest who had spoken Russian of all things. It was her great aunt who knew how to “speak” to all of them; had told her that it had been years since many vampirs communicated in that way. It was probably what kept them from lashing out and killing each other in that long two weeks they were stuffed inside that cargo container, tensions high and the scent of fear so strong it soaked through their clothes. (The memory of that smell still gave Andrea nightmares too). But in those moments, her great aunt’s thrum would fill the air, a hum of _it’s all right, we may not be safe, but we are together_.

Andrea had been amazed how fast she picked it up, like it was something buried in her DNA, along with the ability to read the air and the way her body could move when she was on the hunt. (She had never hunted a day in her life before she had came here either.) And it was an addicting feeling sometimes, to learn what instincts she had inside her, what her body subconsciously knew. Addicting… and terrifying.

What was she now? she wondered sometimes. That she could revel in the hunt, the strength and bonds of the nest (as fractured as it was with the patriarch in charge). The old ways that her grandparents had told her about? What did those things make her? What were they turning her into?

There was own thrum in reply, a soft call that told her it was all right to come out. Andrea glanced back at the nest, checking to make sure none of the sons had heard and were coming to investigate. Alexus gave her a quick _it’s safe_  hum, and with a nod, Andrea bounded away from the entrance of the nest. She was in the safety of the trees before anyone could have gotten a real glimpse of her, agilely moving through the trees like she was born to do it. And maybe she was.

Benny was waiting for her in one of their usual spots (they moved them often so the sons wouldn’t realize he was there), and he lit up when he saw her. It was amazing how much younger he looked when that happened, and Andrea, not for the first time, was caught up again in how handsome he was. Even under the layers of dirt and scars and dried blood and ratty clothes and a shell of a body — even the instinctive need to chase him away from the nest. _  
_

But Andrea pushes aside her instincts. Vampirs were exiled for good reason out in the real world, but not here: The only reason Benny was alone was because the rest of his nest had been hunted down and killed by the patriarch. The patriarch did not suffer any rivals, and Benny’s matriarch was one of his first victims when the newer, _hungrier_ nest was unleashed onto the island. Andrea’s nest and the Russian nest would have suffered the same fate too if their matriarchs hadn't died in the demon's torture cells, or if the patriarch hadn’t been desperate for new bodies to bolster his ranks.

 _Cannon fodder_ , he had called them when he had first found them not long after their release. Andrea couldn’t remember much from that day, just that she had been delirious from hunger, and just overwhelmed by so many sensations of dirt and air and trees and light and something that wasn't a cargo container or cell. She did remember hearing the patriarch though, his gleeful words. _The monster will never get to me now_.

Andrea brushed aside those bad memories, and took comfort in the sight of Benny instead, before her attention drawn to the duck he had with him. It was hanging lifelessly in his hand, sedated by venom and probably having no idea what was going on. Benny offered it to her first, a sort of odd tradition they had started when they had first met. “I hope the little ones like duck blood,” he croaked out, movements slow and respectful as he presented the gift to her. “Feathers would be fun to play with too.”

Elpis would like it especially, Andrea thought: Her tiny second cousin had taken to braiding her hair with flowers and feathers like her late mother once had. “I’m sure they will,” Andrea agreed as she took the bird from his hands, reminded again of how she and Benny had met. In a patch of forest much like this one, when she was still trying to learn how to hunt herself, instincts only getting her so far. He had found her with her arm halfway down a rabbit hole, and then ran off; the next day, he had found her again, and brought with him half a dozen sedated rabbits — more than the sons had bothered to give them when they hunted — and an offer: _I will teach you how to hunt_.

He had been the one to teach them all, with Andrea serving as proxy. “The birds only need the gentlest nip,” he explained as always, and gestured toward the slight tooth mark on the bird’s dark feathers. “Not too much pressure, or you’ll kill them straight away. Their blood moves much fast through their bodies. Don’t let your little ones get too eager with it.”

“I won’t,” Andrea promised, and took the gift and started to move away. Benny tensed when she did, eyes shooting to her face, worried and desperate, his need so clear that Andrea paused. She couldn't help but reach out, just a gentle touch on his arm — any more, and Benny would probably fall apart on her. One of these days, she knew he would, and it would not be a pretty sight.

“I just need to bring the duck to them,” she said, a reassurance that she would be _right_ back, and also that she would be back full stop. Benny looked down at her, and she watched as he put himself back together before he offered her a quick nod and grin. She gave him a smile in return, and Benny handled it better this time when she moved back, sucking in one deep breath that hid a shudder.

“All of you should come hunting with me tomorrow,” he said then, to her surprise. He swayed on his feet, almost shy in how he wouldn’t look at her because he was nervous by how desperate he was. “The fish are coming soon, and we can get some of the early ones that’ll be swimmin’ upstream. I know just the place to catch some. It’d be perfect for your family to work on their hunting skills too.”

Andrea tried to imagine that: Renee standing on the banks with Elpis, while the rest of them bounced around in the water trying to catch fish. Sophia would probably love it — would probably start singing in Russian like she did when she was in a good mood. Alexus would enjoy getting out away from the nest, even though she still didn’t quite trust Benny yet around her and her newborn. And some time away from the patriarch and his sons would do them all a world of good: Remind them that they were not meant to live under patriarchs, that it wasn't right that they did; remind herself that it wasn’t right too, and maybe nurse that feeling inside of her that said she might be the only one who could do something about it.

More importantly it was a chance to grow her skills. And the more skilled she became, the stronger she became. That was what a matriarch was: Strength. 

“We’ll be there,” Andrea promised, and the smile that crossed Benny’s face rivaled her cousin’s. And that smile was definitely worth the risk they would take going out without the sons being aware, she thought. But she was starting to realize seeing her family happy again was worth any risk… And she was beginning to realize what risks she was willing to take to see them happy again.


	5. Beauty Can be Found in the Strangest of Places

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Castiel looks at Dean, there's an odd feeling in his chest he can't quite understand. 
> 
> Set during Chapter 18 of _The Hunted._

When they made it to the bottom of the mountain, Dean no longer needed support walking. As he started to pull away from Castiel’s side, the angel felt a pang of loss that was difficult for him to fully understand. Though it didn’t fully explain it, he had liked the feeling of Dean against his side: His physical warmth, but the comfort of his presence too. It was a constant reminder that Dean was _real,_ this was _real_ ; Castiel was not dreaming this.

But watching Dean take a few tentative steps from him, testing his injured leg, the angel felt a trickle of doubt. He hesitated and, for a moment, held his breath, eyes never leaving Dean.

The human didn’t disappear however, only cursed as he stumbled slightly over a rock and glared down at it.

Castiel sucked in a quick breath.

 _My name is Castiel,_ he told himself again, his wings pressing in tightly against his back. It reassured him; comforted him. _I am not meat_.

He needed to remember that. If he forgot again…

Castiel’s wings rustled then, discontent; he did not want to think about how he had almost killed Dean _again_. It made the ever-present ache in his stomach grow, but the angel forced himself to turn away from it.

 _My name is Castiel,_ he reminded himself once more. _I am not meat_.

“Wow,” Dean muttered, halting next to a tree. He was looking out at the ocean, where, as they made their way down the mountain, the sun had slowly had been rising over the horizon. Only now had it started to paint the clouds pink, as well as lighten the blues of the sky, bringing some warmth to the cold left over from the night. The light also shone on Dean, and for the first time, Castiel could really _see_ his features, and all the details he hadn’t seen the morning before.

Not that Castiel hadn’t already noticed a thousand things about Dean. The human moved so freely, for one, body communicating his every emotion, of which he had _so many_. He was like fire when angry, a calm river when he was relaxed, and when he was sad, it seemed to bleed from every limb. He held weapons with a confidence the angel had only ever seen in the daemons, but his hands had been gentle as he had tended to Castiel’s wounds. His eyes held none of the emptiness Castiel had seen in his own reflection or in any of the others who lived on the island. They instead were filled with a warmth that seemed to radiate from his very being.

In the light of the sunrise, however, Castiel saw another side of him.

Dean had freckles. Green eyes. A hint of a tan to his skin. Full lips. Brown hair with a hint of blond, cheeks dark with a growing beard. They were around the same height, but Dean was in fuller in the chest, in the way only humans were.

That was he was though: _Human_. Living, breathing, warm and bright.

Castiel couldn’t look away.

He felt an odd stirring in his chest he didn’t quite understand, so similar to the feeling he had when Dean pulled away from him. But it was also different: Reminding Castiel of the feeling he had whenever Dean laughed or grinned, and of the gentle touch of his hands when he had cleaned Castiel’s wounds.

“Huh,” Dean muttered then, and Castiel wasn’t so distracted that he didn’t hear the hesitancy in his voice. He looked at Dean, seeing his furrowed brow, and the way he had pursed his lips. He was troubled, but Castiel was not sure why. Nothing seemed amiss; he would have seen or heard if there was.

“What is it?”

Dean glanced at him, his lips twitching downward, and nose wrinkling a little in distaste. “It’s just _that_ ,” he said, and then gestured out at the sunrise. Castiel glanced over at it as well, not sure what he was searching for. Dean huffed in disgust. “It’s _pretty._ ”

It was, but that was a problem for Dean for a reason Castiel couldn't see. He cocked his head, trying to puzzle it out; Dean glanced at him again, and seemed to notice his confusion.

“It just feels _wrong_ ,” he explained, waving a hand as he did. There was irritation in the movement. “So much awful shit happens here, and here I am, gawking at a sunrise.”

Castiel frowned. He didn’t understand what Dean was saying. But with his irritated body language and the slight disgust in his voice, the angel slowly pieced it together.

“You… You do not think beauty can exist in this place?” he asked, wondering if that was the answer.

Dean’s eyes narrowed slightly, like he was confused by what Castiel was saying. Or by Castiel himself. Possibly both.

“Well, yeah,” he muttered, pushing hands into the pockets of his jacket. “Do you?”

The tone of his voice suggested he shouldn’t, but Castiel considered the question. He hadn’t really considered anything _beautiful_ or _pretty_ for a long time, his thoughts far more binary — mostly into  _food_ and _not food_. But he thought of the meadow in the spring, when all the flowers bloomed, and the birds returned. He thought of fall, and how the bushes full of colorful berries, and the forest became a sea of oranges, reds, yellows and greens. He thought of the humpback whales he had seen not so long ago, the way their spouts of air created rainbows he could see even from the distance.

They were small things, and though Castiel might not have consciously appreciated them at the time, he had.

“It can,” he decided, and Dean frowned at him, brow wrinkling with the movement. Castiel hesitated, trying to decipher how he felt about it, which wasn't easy. While Dean was so expressive with his emotions, he was only becoming aware of his again. Putting them into words was far more difficult, but he tried. “It is… a comfort that beauty can exist in this place… when so little else does.”

That was not exactly the sum of everything Castiel felt, but he couldn’t find the words to explain the rest. His attention was drawn back when Dean opened his mouth as if to say something, before he closed it, and then his frown disappeared.

He just looked at Castiel for a moment, an expression on his face the angel had seen before, and it always ended the same. Dean’s cheeks flushed red, his eyes briefly flickering from Castiel’s face down to his body, before glancing away. Castiel was still trying to figure that particular look out — there was something familiar to it, however.

“Yeah, I can see that,” Dean muttered then as he looked back. His cheeks were still red, but his lips twitched toward a smile. “A reminder things aren’t all bad, right?”

 _Yes,_ Castiel thought. That was it, that was what he was feeling. He nodded once, pleased that it had been put into words. It made Dean smile too, and then sway a little toward them that their shoulders brushed. The contact made Castiel’s skin tingle, for reasons he hadn’t figured out yet; it was similar to the feeling he had as he looked at Dean’s smile.

“You know, that reminds me of a joke,” Dean said, in what Castiel was starting to recognize as a sly tone. “Wanna’ hear it?”

 _Yes, yes,_ Castiel thought, and Dean grinned, gesturing him along before he started in on the joke. And as they started to walk again, heading for the meadow and eventually for Ghost Forest, Castiel had another thought. It was one he needed to think over still, but it was nice all the same.

Dean’s eyes were pretty, he thought.


	6. Loss

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Balthazar understood loss. But angels who simply disappeared? He didn't understand that at all.
> 
> Set before _The Hunted._

“Found you, you little devil.”

The black cat, with her enormous yellow eyes, blinked up at him innocently from the bench she had been dozing on. Balthazar gave her a stern look, tan feathers on his wings ruffling up slightly in annoyance. “What have I told you about wandering off, Kedi?”

Kedi squinted at him, looking so much like her former master that it made Balthazar’s wings droop without thinking. Then, with a yawn, the cat tucked her head against her paws to go back to sleep, while the angel sighed.

It was really no surprise that the cat ignored him, even after all these years since Balthazar had unofficially adopted her. It was also no surprise that he had found her in the gardens, because that was where she always went every morning. As if nothing had changed in the past few years; as if Castiel was still there, spending the early morning watching the sunrise and drinking his tea like he had loved to do.

It was Balthazar’s fault that he always grew worried on the days when the bloody cat woke up earlier than usual and wandered off before breakfast. It was unbecoming of an angel to worry over a small human-domesticated animal too, but thank Michael himself, no one was around to point that out to him. Everyone seemed to avoid the rooftop garden as it was, except for Rachel, who diligently tended to the bees with the same narrow-minded focus she had for trade agreements and strongly worded letters from one of the various archs pissed off with Gabriel again.

The bees were already up too, buzzing around the flowers that Castiel had had imported from Jannah years and years ago. When their host had first started talking to the Janniah archs again, Castiel had pressed his siblings still in his former village to send him seedlings of flowers that grew in the forests around their home. (Balthazar had never had the chance to see Castiel’s village for himself, but knew it had been built into a mountainside, and they had grown the flowers in the cracks of the walls.) It had been, for all intents and purposes, a misuse of his newfound political power, but no one had ever commented on it.

That was how badly Jannah wanted an alliance with its formally disowned American host — they were willing to court the quirks of their “lost brother” (as they called him), and America’s war hero. They would have given him anything… And they were lucky Castiel had never been the power-hungry sort, had only ever strived to do what was good and right. Balthazar would have asked for the bloody moon if he had been in charge.

Balthazar sighed again, and then took a seat on the bench next to Kedi, the cat letting out a loud purr. It was far too early to start thinking things like that — about politics, Jannah, or brothers lost in the truest sense of the world. So he preoccupied his thoughts with petting Kedi, skimming fingers down her dark fur, while Castiel’s bees hummed around them. He watched as the sun slowly rose from over the hills, chasing away ocean fog, and catching on the white towers that filled the valley they called home. The altin berries growing on the buildings glimmered like gold pieces in the light, and Castiel’s rooftop garden came to life, fish stirring in the pond and the resident frog ribbiting away.

It was a sight to see, and one Balthazar had never paid much attention to in the old days. He had never been a morning person before Kedi and the bloody bees, preferring staying up late, entertaining whatever guests were visiting with wine and their Jannahian art and armory collection. (Humans were so fascinated by such things, and we’re always willing to pay… And Balthazar never minded the admirers he got in the process.) Not that he still didn’t give tours, but they were during normal hours, and they charged more reasonable fee for them. The local school systems loved the field trip opportunity, not to mention the fledglings too, who loved swooping in and scaring the unsuspecting human elementary students.

Castiel would have loved it, however. Loved Balthazar’s bloody altruistic streak that he didn’t ever know he had in him; loved that he was sharing their history when Jannah had notoriously guarded it like some prized gem, and imposed the same rules on its American counterpart. Loved that he was sharing it with children no less — Cassie always had a soft spot for the young, no matter the species. (During the war, he had even almost ruined an entire battle they had planned for days to save two human boys. Oh, how Balthazar yelled at him for that...)

“Great and honorable,” Castiel had called him once. That the bloody tosser turned out to be right was something Balthazar would forever hate. He had liked his life _before_ , he had—

Balthazar’s wings rustled with his discontent, and he sighed once more. It really was far too early for this, he thought, watching one of the bees meander by. He needed to keep it together too — if anyone found him in the garden like this or sensed his mood during the day, they’d press him to go to Naomi. And if Balthazar had to hear one more lecture from the elder about how loss was part of life...

Because Balthazar bloody understood _loss_. In his youth, he had lost siblings to illness, childhood friends to accidents, elders to old age. Humans’ opinions varied on the subject of death, but for his kind, angels never truly _died_. Their names, their bloodlines were always recorded, in one the elders’ books or in stories and songs. Even on their own bodies, histories painted onto their skins for ceremonies or when the hosts met, so every angel knew your lineage and all those who had been part of it.

But angels disappearing without a trace? Even almost three years later, Balthazar still struggled to understand that. Angels did not just _disappear,_ and certainly not an angel who was the ambassador for Jannah and a famous public figure, and had security details that rivaled human world leaders. Of course, if Cassie hadn’t had a stupid habit of going flying every night, only allowing one guard to accompany him... And if only that guard hadn't lost sight of Castiel that night, perhaps...

(But of course angels could disappear, Naomi would say, and even Balthazar knew that — he studied their history, knew the stories of their kind who had simply vanished. However, Castiel disappearing to what was commonly referred to as the _Black Death_ was a joke, and Naomi was an idiot for trying to compare the two. Everyone knew the Leviathan were extinct, and had been for centuries…)

Again, it was far too early for this, Balthazar thought. Others were starting to get up too; he could see them emerging from the other buildings, off for a morning flight and then the communal breakfast. The museum would open soon too, and for Balthazar, it would be another day like so many in the past two-and-a-half years: A dull ached soothed by the excited faces of human and angel alike as they studied their history and culture.

Cassie would have loved that, after all.

Balthazar looked down at Kedi then, before extending his arms. “Time for breakfast, little devil,” he told her, and the cat blinked at him again. But like so many times before, she stretched out and then went into his arms, purring contently as he lifted her up. Balthazar sighed at that — perhaps a little fondly, but he would deny it — before, with a massive flap of his wings, he took off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> World building! This was all kind of interweaved in the main story, but a long time ago, Gabriel (an "arch," or leader) took his host (or the group of angels he was the head of) out of their home country of Jannah, and went to America. Which Jannah did not like AT ALL, and disowned the lot of them until Castiel went and won a war for the humans. And then, for various political reasons, Jannah was more open to their now-famous lost brothers, who had the love and adoration of the world... And the rest is history. A history I hope to reveal more and more in various vignettes...


	7. Clothes Make The Angel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean always had a thing for clothes, and Cas's are no exception.
> 
> Set a few months after _The Hunted._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felt like writing some fluffy smut, so. Yeah. Enjoy?

Dean was a nosy son-of-a-bitch, always poking his head into places he probably shouldn’t have. Cas’s clothes seemed to be a free-for-all however, mostly because a) Cas already had gone through all his things, picking stuff out of his duffel and toiletry bag with his “I forgot about this” look, and b) the items in question were right there on their bed as it was. There was no avoiding temptation then, not when they were begging to be examined.

It wasn’t just Dean’s nosy nature being indulged as he turned Cas’s clothes this way and that: Cas was sitting across from him on the bed, going through them as well. The clothes had come in the night before, another angel, named Hannah, flying in from California to come stay at the house Gabriel had rented for all of them. The angels had found the house while Dean had still been in the intensive care unit at the hospital — a quiet place built on top of a hill, with a gate that kept the press and paparazzi at bay. Not that the paparazzi hadn't tried to get in several times, but the angel security that met them inside had scared most of them from making the attempt again.

It was a good place, near the hospital, which Dean still made frequent trips to for physical therapy and to have doctors check on his healing leg. And it was good for Cas, who was still slowly getting acclimated to the real world, and sometimes got overwhelmed when too many people were around him at once. (Going home where there would be a thousand angels waiting for him didn’t help Cas’s anxiety any.) Dean knew the angels weren’t exactly thrilled about it all — it was clear they wanted to take their lost brother home already — but for Cas, they were waiting until he was ready.

In a way, he was just like Dean, who was kind of in the same boat. Sam still needed to find them a place to stay that was near Jess and the twins in California, and that was easier said than done. (A place that was wheelchair-friendly wasn’t easy-to-find apparently.) That place also had to be somewhere where Dean could begin the next stage of his rehabilitation: learning how to walk with a prosthesis, and shaping his residual leg for his future prosthetic limb. And that, along with everything else, was all bit more than Dean wanted to deal with — hell, he was still getting used to not having most of his right leg as it was. So he was simply content hanging out in the meantime, focusing on getting healthy and healing, and getting a dent into Cas’s movie education while they were still together.

But those were all things Dean was pointedly not thinking about, easy to do when there were all of Cas’s new clothes to go through. Balthazar had dropped them off at their room that morning, saying something about Cas needing to “stop wearing those godawful human clothes already,” and Dean and Cas had dug into the bag. And though Dean did not mind the sweatpants-sweater-trenchcoat thing Cas had going on, he had always a _tiny_ thing for clothes.

Angel clothes were something else, too.

From the bedside table, the iPod they had plugged into the speakers was going through some of Dean’s favorite songs, STYX playing away. Dean bobbed his head without thinking as he rifled through the clothing bag, pulling out various items. Most of the clothing was incredibly lightweight, fabric made out of some sort of springy mesh that was surprisingly sheer to the touch. They looked like they fitted too — and anything that showed off Cas’s thighs (starting to fill out as he gained more and more weight) was a fucking plus in Dean’s book — but apart from the pants, it was hard to tell what was what. Things that Dean guessed were shirts were pretty much missing backs, clearly space for Cas's wings. They had buttons or buckles at the neck and at the lower back, but some pieces were missing sleeves... Or were, until Cas showed him the extra sleeve-shaped fabric that could be attached to the main shirt.

“Huh. So it’s like turning cargo pants to shorts,” Dean said as he turned over the sleeve in his hand. Like the other clothes, it was sheer, and he could see through it too when he held it up to the window. “Why is it so thin though?”

“It’s to not restrict our movements,” Cas explained as he skimmed his fingers down a shirt, blue eyes filled with his “I remember this” look. His wing bobbed out a little, in what Dean was learning meant he was happy, all the feathers on them fluffing up before settling. “The material is made to breathe too, so we don't overheat during training or battles. It's easy to overheat if we wear thicker materials. I remember when I was younger, in Jannah... It was so hot, most of time we wore next to nothing just to keep cool.”

Now _that_ was a nice mental image, Dean thought. And it made sense too, though it seemed impractical here where the weather was cold. It was snowing outside too, and it’d probably be freezing when he and Cas went out for a walk/wheelchair roll later in the backyard. “What about to keep warm? This stuff doesn’t seem like it would.”

Cas’s lips twitched toward a smile and he rummaged through the bag again, pulling out another pair of clothing. It was same material but noticeably thicker, Cas showing him the feathers tucked inside it. “The down feathers help keep the heat in. We layer them on our other clothing, and it works with our own natural body heat.”

Knowing from personal experience how hot Cas ran, Dean could see how that worked. He nodded thoughtfully, and Cas’s lips did form into a smile this time as he looked back down at the clothes in his hands. He ran his fingers down the material again, tracing the lines of the mesh, his wings rustling once more. “We… My host, Dean. We _invented_ this. I _remember_ when my brethren created our own clothing.”

Dean lifted his eyebrows as Cas looked up at him, expression excited. Cas still remembering bits and pieces of his past was only a good thing, but Dean realized quickly that wasn’t why the angel was so happy. “We were having trouble adjusting human clothing to fit our needs. It was so thick and heavy and loose, and weighed us down when it was wet too. So my brethren — Inais, Ariel and Jeremial — they decided to try making something,” Cas explained, smile growing as he held the shirt up. His eyes were full of wonder and awe. “And they _did_. This was our first invention — possibly the _first_ angel invention ever. Clothing that suited our needs.”

Turning back to the clothes in hand, Dean had to look at them in new light. Cas had kind of told him that angels weren’t known for creating things — that their hierarchies in Jannah might have been too strict to allow creativity to flourish. That was one of the reasons Cas’s host had left their home country, to see what the angels were capable of outside of the hierarchies. And though the first invention had been something as simple as clothing, Dean could see how important that was.

“That’s pretty cool, Cas,” he said and the angel beamed. Dean grinned, and then handed the clothes back to him. “Well, what are you waiting for? You should try ‘em on, see how they fit. What’s that old saying? Clothes make the man? Let’s see what that they make the angel.”

Cas lit up at the idea, and then, after gathering the clothes together, he slid off the bed, wings pulling tan sheets with him on accident. Dean managed to grab them before they did, and with a quick apology, Cas headed for the bathroom they shared. Feeling a little devious, Dean scooted forward a little on the bed, using the mirror on the dresser to help him look inside the bathroom. Not that he hadn’t seen Cas naked several times by now, but any glimpse of those thighs could _not_ be missed. Sadly, Cas’s gray-going-on-black wings kind of blocked the view, though Dean got some hints of skin as he shuffled around in there.

“Okay,” Cas said then in his gruff voice, and then after some shuffling and wing rustling, he stepped out of the bathroom. There was a tentative smile on his lips, arms and wings spreading out in a quiet ‘ta-da’ as he revealed his new clothing. "How do I look."

Dean’s reaction was immediate, and maybe a bit embarrassing: His cheeks burned, he swallowed heavily, his legs shifted inward and he only managed to shoot his hand downward to hide his most obvious reaction. And he also couldn’t look away, taking in Cas’s new attire slowly, from top to bottom, utterly mesmerized.

He had thought Cas was a good-looking angel when he had been way too thin and needed to gain a lot of weight back. And while Cas wasn’t at the weight his doctors wanted him at yet, the results were starting to show in his body. It wasn’t just those thighs Dean was obsessed with: Cas was filling out in his chest and back and legs, revealing hints of the lean, muscular, powerful frame that defined his species. He was built for agility, speed, flexibility and to fly, and his clothes highlighted that. They shaped around his body, pressed tight against his lean frame, and flattering his angles, showing off his powerful legs and the muscles of his chest. The see-through effect of his shirt also showed the Enochian words and sigils painted on Cas’s arms and stomach, protection and peace wards that, while they had no true power, had meant a lot to the angel when his brethren had given it to him.

In a word, he was beautiful. And fucking _hot_. (Dean had a lot more to obsess over now.) But it was more than that, too: He had been looking up photos of Cas before his abduction, and for the first time, Dean saw that angel in his angel now. And for the first time, Dean realized how far he had come since they had first met, how healthier and happier Cas looked lately. He would always have his scars and broken wings, but he was taking back some of what the monster had stolen from him piece by piece. Dean was here, seeing it too, like he had wanted too long ago.

"You look _great,_ " he croaked out hoarsly, and Cas ducked his head, rubbing at his neck. But the movement drew his attention to the full-length mirror hanging off the bedroom door, and he looked over at it. He went absolutely still then, eyes wide as he slowly looked himself over. It was possible he was seeing what Dean was seeing, wonder in his gaze as he slowly reached out and touched the mirror: The angel he had been, the angel he sometimes still forgot about.

“Is this real?” he asked then as he stared at his reflection. Dean nodded, swallowing again. It was real: He was seeing Cas healthy. He was seeing Cas happy. This wasn't a dream for either of them.

“Yeah, Cas, that’s you,” he murmured, and the angel looked at him, awe in his eyes. Dean smiled at him, his heartbeat quickening a little. “Really rockin’ that angel ingenuity there, too.”

Cas's lips slowly spread into the smallest of grins,  and he glanced at the mirror again. He took himself in once more, eyes traveling the length of the mirror before he looked back at Dean. There was a look in his eyes that Dean couldn’t quite all read — gratitude, happiness, and much more, flicking by so fast — though he didn’t really need to when Cas strode over to him, and then kissed him.

It was sweet and slow and Dean sank into it, reaching up to grasp Cas’s hips, while the angel’s hands traced down his cheeks. So much was poured into it — that gratitude and happiness and the promises they had made to each other — and it said something else too. 

 _Thank you for showing me this,_ Cas said in each breathless kiss, curling fingers against Dean’s hair.  _  
_

Dean had to reply in kind, grip tightening on his hips. _Thanks for making sure I saw it._

The kisses changed: Growing hungrier, needy. Kisses that made Cas move closer, slotting between his legs, and Dean start to lean back so he had more room. And then Cas slid down to straddle his legs, and Dean had to pull away to suck in a deep breath. There was no really hiding his half-hard dick when Cas was pressed against it, and the angel didn’t seem surprised by its presence, merely nuzzling Dean’s neck instead. Dean took in another breath, moving hands up to Cas’s side, where the open back of his shirt gave easy access to skin. Cas’s wings began to spread under questing fingers, Dean skimming his sides the way he knew the angel liked. It made Cas rock his hips into him, and slowly move hands down Dean’s chest; Dean had to remember how to breathe again, hands seizing Cas’s glorious thighs.

“S-So, hate to say this, Cas,” he mumbled, head tilting back as the angel pressed kisses on the underside of his chin. “But I was wondering... I was wondering if we could take your clothes off now.”

That was the least smoothest line he had ever delivered, but Dean didn’t really care. Cas’s eyes opened, and they were dark, pupils blown against the blue of his irises. “I thought you liked how I looked in them,” he breathed into Dean’s jaw, the teasing lessened when Cas started unbuttoning the back of his shirt. Dean chuckled anyway, because Cas had learned how to tease recently; it was usually delivered in the most deadpan voice he had too, and Dean  _loved_ it sometimes.

“I _do_ ,” he replied, as the bottom of Cas’s shirt fell open, and he had more delicious, heated skin to touch. All that heat that Dean couldn’t get enough; he’d never be cold again with Cas there. “That’s why I don't really want to tear them off you? I could though, I really could...”

Cas quieted him with another kiss, and then pushed him back on to the mattress. He climbed on top of Dean to straddle his hips again, and Dean sucked in another breath as Cas started to strip his shirt at least, revealing swathes of skin that were begging to be explored.

And Dean could this time, thankfully: Sex hadn’t been the easiest thing in the first few weeks after getting out of the hospital. Not when they had both had had hurt ribs, were on pain meds, and Dean himself had had more bandages than he could count. Also, it was _exhausting,_ and the some of the things Dean wanted to explore with Cas were going to have to wait until he got more of his strength back. Still, this was fantastic too, Dean touching the places he knew Cas liked, those that made his breath hitch and wings fall open.

“Dean,” Cas moaned, clutching at his hands, rocking their hips together. He still loved being touched almost above all else, greedy for it and not hiding it whenever he pushed against Dean’s side or reached for Dean for reassurance. And he was more than happy to give that to him, but Cas gave as much back now, Dean never realizing how much he liked being touched too. He hissed in pleasure when Cas’s hands pressed against him, sliding under his shirt up his chest. His hips jerked too when Cas pushed the shirt up to his shoulders, and then slid back enough that he slotted between Dean’s legs. The new angle meant he could press his tongue to Dean’s nipple, one at a time, hands tracing the planes of his stomach.

Dean had to fight back a moan (the house carried noise far too well), head falling back as his hips jerked again. He was fully hard now, and Cas was right there with him, rocking against him, giving them both the friction they wanted and needed. Dean could clutch at Cas’s thighs when he wanted, and then skim up his sides to his wings like the angel loved. And Cas could do the same: kiss down his chest, and dip his hands into his navel before gripping his hips to help Dean move.

They had to hide groans into each other’s skin when Cas’s movements became hungrier, and Dean’s sweatpants were shoved out of the way. Dean didn’t care they ended up getting caught on his bad leg, he really didn’t — not with the full force of Cas’s heat pressed against him in the best of places. His new life, the problems they both still had to struggle with, the things Dean didn’t want to face yet — they were made okay when they had _this_. They were worth it when they had this, and not just the thrust of Cas’s hips and the way he pushed kisses to Dean’s neck, breathing his name into his skin. Just having Cas, here and now, Dean able to touch him and know he was not alone. Able to breathe his name into his skin. “ _Cas_.”

They moved faster, harder, grinding into each other, pushing themselves closer and closer to the edge. Dean got there first, but he knew Cas was right behind him, as he slid his hand between their bodies to grasp both of them at once. Cas hissed into his chin, shifting enough up so Dean had the room to slide his hand up and down, heat and wetness from both of them making it so easy. Cas watched him as he did, panting heavily, his eyes dark but still filled with the same gratitude from earlier. And Dean hoped his eyes were filled with the same as the heat inside him built up, and his orgasm hit him. He groaned _loudly_ , spilling all over Cas and himself, the waves of pleasure making his entire body sing. Cas followed right after him: With his wings giving a quick beat of the the air, he muffled his cry into Dean’s neck, and came too.

They lay there, Dean’s heart pounding away as he caught his breath, sticky and sweaty in the best way. Cas was panting too, skin burning almost white-hot — he wasn’t kidding about the overheating — wings still spread out and trembling. The Doobie Brothers were singing _Long Train Running_ from the speakers and Dean couldn’t help but hum along with song, reaching up to brush Cas's feathery hair back. Cas shifted to look at him when he did, stroking Dean's bad leg as a lazy, happy smile crossed his face. And Dean loved the sight of that smile, thrilled again he got to see this, _have_ this.

It took a while, but even Dean noticed that Cas had never gotten his pants off. He winced slightly, touching the fabric with his clean hand, enjoying the feel of the fabric again. (Also, damn, they made Cas’s thighs look _so_ good.)

But he had to ask. “Um, these are easy to clean, right?”

Cas’s sleepy grew fond, hand stroking Dean’s side now. “They were designed to be,” he murmured, and that had Dean grinning.

“Angel ingenuity right there,” he said, and Cas chuckled into his skin before he kissed him again.


	8. Angel Fetish Pt. 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That Dean was obsessed with angels wasn't a surprise, but it's been a while since Bobby's heard the boy talk about them.

* * *

  **Winter 1994**

* * *

“Whatcha lookin’ for, son?”

Dean nearly jumped out of his skin; Bobby lifted an eyebrow as the boy whipped around, the book in his hands nearly falling from his grip as he tried to hide it behind him. It was one of his older books, which was surprising: When Bobby had first seen Dean rooting around his library, he thought the teenager was looking for more _questionable_ material.

Not that Bobby would have kept that at his desk, but some of his older books had realistic drawings that could do in a pinch. Except Bobby knew where those were on the shelves, and Dean was _nowhere_ near them… Yet, the boy was as red as a beet, as if Bobby had discovered him with a handful of dirty mags.

“N-Nothing,” Dean stammered in a clear lie. Bobby was a little thrown by that too, folding his arms over his chest. He had seen Dean fib with the best of them, and for him to fail so spectacularly here and now, that meant somethin’ was up. So he gave Dean the _look,_ which made the boy curse under his breath and glance away. It still took him a moment to respond, Dean shuffling on his feet before he turned back, expression hesitant.

“Do you…” Dean bit his lip, swallowed visibly, and then looked away again. He looked out toward the windows, where Sam was playing in the salvage yard with one of his toy airplanes. Dean twitched, and then glanced back. “Do you have any books on... a-angels?”

Bobby lifted his eyebrows.

Dean had once been obsessed with angels; had wanted to get his hands on anything that even remotely referenced them. It was hardly a surprise when an angel had rescued him back at Colt’s Gate, something Dean hadn’t been able to stop talking about for six weeks straight. (Even now Bobby could recall Dean, using his hands to act it out, babbling, “And then he just swooped in, and _crushed_ the hound’s skull. It was _awesome,_ Bobby. _Awesome_.”)

But that had also been a few years ago, and Dean had gotten interested in other things. Bobby hadn’t heard the word “angel” out of the boy’s mouth since… Since…

Since Dean’s daddy had made clear how _he_ felt about angels.

Bobby couldn’t blame John for not liking angels, if he was being completely honest. Their side, the human side, had been losing the Azazel Uprising war, there was no question — the battle of Colt’s Gate proved that. But for the angels to come in and end the war within eight months still kinda stung for many soldiers, Bobby included. That the angels had been pushed for many of the demons’ demands after the war ended wasn’t any easier either to forgive either. (Few people knew how much the angels had been involved in negotiating peace terms between humans and demons. Dean certainly didn't.)

Bobby had come around over the years however, but John hadn’t. Couldn’t, as he said. _Wouldn’t_ , Bobby had always thought.

But at the moment, John was three states away, looking for work. And Dean was here, in Bobby’s library, looking for books on angels. Bobby had a feeling those two things weren’t a coincidence.

He looked Dean over, such a scrawny teenager that even his oversized flannel and the holes in his jeans couldn’t hide it. Dean dressed liked his old man, talked like his old man; he loved the same foods as his old man; the same music too. (Same car… Though Bobby could understand that the Impala was special, so he always let that one go.) Bobby had thought Dean seemed to share his old man’s hatred for demons too — all non-humans really — but apparently...

Bobby felt himself start to smile. Who knew Dean had a little rebellious streak in him? That was a damn good sight to see.

“Bottom shelf, there’s a few,” he said then, and Dean’s eyes lit up hopefully. “I don’t have much, but the library in town probably has more, if you want to go later.”

Despite Bobby’s feelings about angels, Dean’s happy grin was definitely worth any misgivings.


	9. Memories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The angel doesn't want to forget again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is cut content from Chapter 3 of _Thistle and Weeds_. It's incredibly short.
> 
> Set during Chapter 10 of _The Hunted_.

“Your host didn’t have an archangel, right?” Dean asked as he dabbed a cloth at the angel’s wounds, sweeping up blood and dirt. His other hand was lightly curled around his wrist, and the angel was mesmerized by the feel of Dean’s fingers against his skin. “You needed a new one and the other hosts had decided on you…”

The angel frowned. Dean was asking him about things that he only knew from his dreams. Did that meant they _weren’t_ dreams? Did that mean they were _memories_? If they were...

And what Dean was saying seemed to be unlocking other memories too, things the angel hadn’t dreamed about but instinctively knew. “No, that is not …That is not right,” he told Dean, memories and dreams slowly connecting together like puzzle pieces. His host had been without an arch by choice, and the Jannahian hosts had pushed for them to elect someone. “No. We… We didn’t want ranks. We didn’t want the hierarchy.”

Not again. They had grown up under it; chose to leave it. If the Jannahian hosts wanted the American host back in their fold, they would respect their choices.

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, brow furrowing thoughtfully.

“Our host…” The Agnes host, the smallest host, the only host to leave Jannah. The most unusual host; forged not by family, but by vision. “Gabriel… he did not want that for us. He decided we were to be different. He stepped down as our arch, and dissolved the host’s hierarchy.”

“Why?”

“It was... important,” the angel replied, his heart swelling excitedly. No, it had been more than that — it had been _everything._ “We needed to discover what it meant to be an angel for ourselves.”

His heartbeat quickened, chest warm. Though he didn’t quite understand why he had cherished it once, having it back was enough. It was thanks to Dean he had it back too, and the angel held onto it tightly, hoping he didn’t forget again.

He didn’t want to forget anything ever again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr.](http://jkateel.tumblr.com/)


End file.
